


Obvious Guy

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Idiots in lust, M/M, canon typical violence towards animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: It’s two in the morning, Bucky is on his third espresso, and he has to pee.So far, the clinic has been slow - it usually is at night, which is partly why Bucky takes as many night shifts as he can.But the second, the literal, actual second he steps towards the bathroom, he gets paged into the surgery room.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 26
Kudos: 285
Collections: 2021 Winterhawk Valentine's Day Exchange





	Obvious Guy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mollynoble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollynoble/gifts).



> For Molly Noble, an exchange gift for the Winterhawk Valentine's Day Exchange.  
> I started to write a friends to lovers space AU but.... wow did it get dark. So instead I switched to this?  
> You're amazing and I hope you enjoy!

It’s two in the morning, Bucky is on his third espresso, and he has to pee.

So far, the clinic has been slow - it usually is at night, which is partly why Bucky takes as many night shifts as he can.

But the second, the literal, actual second he steps towards the bathroom, he gets paged into the surgery room.

“Dr. Barnes, we need you in surgery.”

Which - 

It’s not like they schedule two A.M. surgeries,  _ ever _ , and it’s a Thursday night. New Year’s Eve was more than a month ago, Single’s Hell Day is tomorrow, though, and maybe some idiot has had disaster strike and now -

Now, it’s going to be Bucky’s problem.

He pulls on a fresh surgical mask, washes his hands, negotiates a plea deal with his bladder, and steps into the surgery room.

Blood,is the first thing that draws his attention. It’s red, after all, and kind of tends to draw the eye.

Fur, bone, mud - blood, so very much blood.

Bucky shoves the guy in the gray suit away from the table, away from the mangled dog whining and  _ bleeding _ and steps up.

“What the hell happened?” Bucky demands as he pulls on the gloves that Darcy, his tech for the night, thrusts at him with her own blue covered hands.

“Guy brought him in just now,” Darcy says, her voice just as low and angry as Bucky’s.

Bucky flicks a glare at the suit guy. He’s white, tall, blond, blue eyed, has the face and body type of a rich white asshole with the time and luxury and health benefits and genetic lottery to be handsome in a fashion model kind of way.

“What the hell happened?” Bucky repeats, louder.

The white guy blinks, seems to shake himself and he draws in a deep breath.

“You gotta - you gotta fix him,” the guy says.

Bucky is about two seconds from turning his back on this poor animal and murdering the guy.

_ Fix him _ . Like this creature is some kind of toy, some kind of  _ thing _ that can be  _ fixed _ when it’s  _ broken _ .

“Darcy, get this asshole out of here,” Bucky growls. “And then come back and help me.”

“What - you can fix him? You’re gonna fix him, right? You gotta -”

“Darcy,” Bucky snarls, cutting him off.

“Do you want me to… call anyone?” Darcy asks in an undertone.

Anyone could, literally, be anyone.

From Sam Wilson, whose veterinary practice this is and who won’t be in for his own shift for another five hours, to Steve Rogers, who is shit at anything that isn’t picking a fight or creating brilliant art, to the police.

Bucky makes himself breathe in deeply for a few seconds.

“No,” he finally says. “Just get him out of here.”

He doesn’t look up, but he hears Darcy shuffling the guy out of the room, hears her saying something to him, hears the guy saying something back, but he’s not really listening, not really focused on anything but the dog in front of him.

“You gotta pull through,” Bucky says to the dog, catching the one visible eye with his own gaze. “Pull through so you can bite the hell out of that asshole.”

-o-

It’s a near thing.

On top of the blood loss, the eye that is just… gone, the dog has a broken pelvis, a broken leg and two broken ribs. 

Sam  _ is _ in by the time Bucky is finished, has actually scrubbed in to assist for the last two hours, and the dog is, at the very least, not dying yet.

They get him on an IV drip, sedated and pumped full of antibiotics, and put back in a kennel to recover. Darcy has gone home by then and Kate Bishop is in, so it’s her that Bucky gives the post-op instructions to.

And it’s Kate who has to body block him when Bucky steps out into the lobby, hands and face scrubbed clean and wearing his street clothes, to find that the asshole is still there.

Nine hours later and he is sitting there, head lolled back against the wall, blue eyes open and staring at the ceiling, face pale and eyes red rimmed.

“You son of a bitch,” Bucky bites out and charges forward, uncaring that there is a woman with a small child at the other end of the waiting room.

Kate manages to get between Bucky and the asshole, plants both hands on his chest and has to lean all of her weight against him to keep him stationary.

Asshole stands up, blinks slow and stupid at him.

“Is he - did you fix him?”

Bucky tries to - gently - shove Kate away.

“Fix him? He’s not - I’ll fix  _ you _ , you pile of -”

“Bucky!” Kate ends up shouting, small hands fisted into his shirt. “Bucky, he didn’t do it!”

Her tone of voice, the volume and the uncharacteristically shrill note of fear in it, stop him more than the actual words. 

Bucky looks down at her.

“What?”

Kate draws in a shallow breath and slowly lets it out.

“Clint didn’t hurt the dog, Bucky.”

Bucky might be full of rage, but he’s not blinded by it.

‘Clint’ must be the asshole.

“Then who the f- who did?” Bucky catches himself before he can do more damage. The woman and kid and - their ferret? On a leash? - look anxious enough already.

Clint puts a hand on Kate’s shoulder, nods at her when she gives him a look. She raises both her eyebrows, but steps away from Bucky and edges towards the woman and kid. Hopefully she will convince them not to run away. 

“It was my fault,” Clint says and Bucky’s hands curl into fists again.

“What. Did. You. Do?” Bucky demands, because that dog… there was no easy explanation for the extent and variety of damage Bucky had just dealt with.

“I pissed off the wrong guys,” Clint said, handsome face twisted into a scowl. “They were - it - it doesn’t matter. It’s my fault the dog is - please, just, tell me if you - is he - fuck, is he alive?”

Bucky wants to do a lot of things. Wants to punch this guy. Wants to drag him back and show him the stuffed to capacity trash bags of gauze from the surgery, wants to shove his nose into the xray’s he took, wants to show him the bandaged and sedated dog and tell Clint he will never, ever come near him again.

But Sam steps in, coming from who the hell knows where, summoned by fuck knows what, and, as usual, saves the day.

“I’m Dr. Wilson,” he says, sticking his hand out, between Clint and Bucky.

“Uh, Clint, Clint Barton,” the asshole says, looking between Bucky and Sam but shaking Sam’s hand.

“Can you give us any information about your dog? A history, at least?” Sam asks, voice smooth and easy and not at all obviously full of the same rage that Bucky feels, that Bucky knows Sam feels too. 

If Sam’s mother knew her precious son was capable of saying the things that came out of his mouth while he and Bucky were working on the dog for these last few hours, she would be scandalized and she would take it out of his ass no matter how old he was.

Sam was just as pissed as Bucky. He just had the people skills to hide it.

“He’s not - not my dog,” Clint says.

Bucky is, yet again, completely derailed.

“What?” He asks, and he’s tired of that word, tired of this man and his stupid purple tie and - and the smear of blood on his jaw, the side of his face and his hands. Bucky thinks, at first, that it’s from the dog. But the blood on his face is, actually, from a cut at his hairline. And his lower lip is split, blood rubbed into his chin and the dark blond stubble that wasn’t as visible hours ago when Bucky had first wanted to murder him.

Sam probably notices the guy’s state at the same time.

“You get into a fight?” Sam asks.

Clint scowls and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Look, I’m not - I just want to make sure the dog is okay.”

“And I just want to make sure assholes that abuse animals are punished for being shitty humans,” Bucky says to him.

Clint blinks, just as slow as before, and Bucky thinks maybe he’s tired, not stupid. Or maybe both.

“You feel like taking on the  _ Bratva _ over their treatment of dogs for round two, go for it,” he mutters.

And - 

And oh, hell.

“You fought… you fought the Russian mob over… a dog?” Sam asks, incredulous. He slants a glance at Bucky, but Bucky is just as mystified as Sam over this.

“It wasn’t - we were already on shitty terms and the dog - he was just tryin’ to be good, okay? He got in the way of them kickin’ my ass and he -” Clint waves a hand, helpless and sad looking.

Bucky closes his eyes.

What the  _ shit _ .

This idiot - 

“The dog is in recovery,” he finally says. “He lost an eye, a lot of blood. He has a broken pelvis, a broken leg and two broken ribs.”

Clint sucks in a breath.

“Shit.  _ Shit _ . Is he - is he gonna -”

Bucky shrugs.

“He’s made it this far. With rest and care… we’ll have to see.”

Sam is scowling, but he still asks the question Bucky knows he has to, also knows he doesn’t want to.

“Do you know who the owner is?” Sam asks.

Clint sneers.

“Yeah, I fucking do. The guy I’ve got a date with later tonight.”

Oh.

Oh wow.

Angry, Clint’s generic white guy good looks transform into… something that really, really does it for Bucky.

Sam gives Bucky a look, as if he knows what he’s thinking. Fuck, he probably does. Sam and Bucky have worked together, been friends, been enemies, long enough for Sam to know exactly how fucked up Bucky is.

“Care to share his name?” Sam asks, voice all pleasant and amused.

“Nah,” Clint decides. “No way in hell that guy is getting near the dog again. I - fuck, I don’t even know his name. The dog,” he tacks on quickly.

“Be nice to saddle him with the medical bills, though,” Sam suggests.

Clint’s face immediately falls.

“Oh. Fuck. No - it’s, look, I’ll pay for them, okay?”

Bucky blinks, looks over at Sam.

Honestly, neither of them expected this asshole - okay, Bucky is going to have to start thinking of him as something other than asshole - to still be here at the end of the surgeries. Bucky had already loaded all of the paperwork into the folder for ‘pro bono’ work in anticipation that there would be no one to bill.

Sam looks back at Bucky, shrugs.

The clinic does okay, well enough to pay the both of them, Sharon, Kate and Darcy and Sam is in the process of hiring another vet to float and two more techs, but that doesn’t mean Sam is in a position to say no to that kind of offer.

“Sure,” Sam shrugs. He gives Bucky a look. It’s his  _ don’t be a dick _ look. Usually, that look makes Bucky want to be even  _ more _ of an asshole.

Sam pats Clint on the shoulder, the gesture making both Clint and Bucky shoot him bewildered looks, and then Sam leaves the waiting room.

Bucky notices that Kate has, at some point, shepherded the ferret family back to one of the rooms.

“So, uh, paperwork?” Clint asks. He scratches at the back of his neck and the gesture, combined with the slightly shy smile Clint gives him, permanently banishes Bucky’s ability to think of this guy as  _ the asshole _ .

“Not right now,” Bucky sighs. “I was supposed to be off shift three hours ago, I’m tired as shit, Kate is still learning the system and -”

“Shit. I’m sorry. About -” Clint waves his hand and Bucky arches an eyebrow. “Everything?” Clint tacks on.

Bucky snorts a laugh and shakes his head.

“It’s fine. Mostly. Just… come back in a few hours, when Sharon is in. She’s the office manager.”

Clint raises both of his eyebrows.

“That’s… listen, I’m shit at everything, but that seems like a… bad way to run a business?”

Bucky snorts a laugh.

“It is. I mean, it’s not - usually things are running smoother than this. But Sam had to help me out, so Kate’s been a bit overwhelmed this morning and we’re running behind.”

Clint nods but he’s grimacing.

“Okay. I’ll come back later.”

He turns to go, gets to the door, in fact, before he stops.

Bucky had been following him, and Clint’s sudden stop bumps them into each other.

“Sorry,” Clint says. He smiles, a little crooked, and this close, the four or so inches he has on Bucky are noticeable.

“It’s fine,” Bucky assures him and takes a step back.

“I, uh, was gonna see if - coffee?”

Bucky is tired as shit, but he’s still pretty sure there should be more words in that question.

“... is a beverage?” He offers.

Clint’s smile twists a little.

“Yeah, is it, one you drink?”

“More frequently than I should,” Bucky confirms.

Clint’s smile grows, wide and bright and -

Oh.

Fuck.

He’s…

Really, really pretty.

And not, apparently, an asshole who beats the shit out of dogs. Instead, he’s the guy who rescues abused dogs from the fucking Russian mob.

“Any chance I could convince you to join me? For some?”

“Uh huh,” Bucky says, not really thinking or even listening that closely because Clint has freckles, a delicate splash of them over the bridge of his nose and cheeks and Bucky has always, absolutely, been an idiot for freckles.

“Now?” Clint asks.

Which snaps Bucky back to reality.

Coffee. Now.

Hell no.

“I really need to sleep,” he says.

Clint’s smile falters, holds for a second and then falls entirely. He nods.

“Yeah, of course - you, you just spent all night saving a dog’s life. You - yeah. I… okay. Cool. I’ll uh, yeah. I’ll come back later to do the… the stuff. For the dog.”

Bucky blinks and tries to piece together the mess of words Clint seems incapable of shutting off.

And then he realizes, puts together the loss of Clint’s smile and the awkward jumble.

“Oh, no. No, you’re hot,” Bucky assures him.

Clint blinks, stares and then blushes. Cheeks and  _ ears _ going pink.

“I, uh, thanks? You’re… you’re hot too? Like - scary, competent hot? Like, beefy and wow, kind of hot?”

Bucky feels himself grin and he’s so fucking glad Sam isn’t around for this shitshow.

“The kind of hot you want to ask out on a coffee date?”

Clint nods, shrugs and then shoves his hands back into his pockets and offers Bucky a smile that is small and hopeful and completely devastating. 

“But you’re tired,” Clint says.

“I am right  _ now _ ,” Bucky clarifies. “I won’t be tonight. My shift starts at seven, and I’ll be here for twelve hours.”

Clint licks his lips - and  _ that _ is not fair at  _ all _ .

“So… if I brought you coffee after my date with the  _ Bratva _ …”

Bucky glares at him.

“You aren’t actually going to fight the Russian mob. Again.”

“Sure,” Clint says. “So, say… midnight or so?”

Fuck’s sake.

Bucky thinks about Steve, about Sam, about Darcy and Kate - Kate, who seemed to actually know Clint? - and thinks he might have room in his life for  _ one more _ idiot.

“Midnight or so,” Bucky agrees.

Clint grins, winks at him and  _ blows him a kiss _ .

“See you then,” Clint says and then he walks out.

Bucky closes his eyes.

Fuck’s sake.

-o-

  
  



End file.
